


Nos unum sumus

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A different kind of pack fic, F/M, Gen, M/M, Magic, Pre-Slash, Rating is for mentions of nudity, Rituals, halloween fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>According to Google Translate, the Latin for "We are one," is "Nos unum sumus." </p><p>I'm aware that all kinds of things have been floating about the 'net in regards to Jackson/Colton and season three. Until the third season actually airs, I'm disregarding all of it, because that's when we'll finally know for certain what is going on.</p><p>Songs I listened to throughout the writing process: Fever Ray's <i>When I Grow Up</i> and <i>The Wolf</i>, as well as These New Puritans' <i>We Want War</i>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Nos unum sumus

**Author's Note:**

> According to Google Translate, the Latin for "We are one," is "Nos unum sumus." 
> 
> I'm aware that all kinds of things have been floating about the 'net in regards to Jackson/Colton and season three. Until the third season actually airs, I'm disregarding all of it, because that's when we'll finally know for certain what is going on.
> 
> Songs I listened to throughout the writing process: Fever Ray's _When I Grow Up_ and _The Wolf_ , as well as These New Puritans' _We Want War_.

“Remind me, again, who you’re supposed to be,” says the sheriff, as he shrugs into his jacket and then checks the safety on his gun. He takes in the baffling ensemble once more. Stiles has what looks like some kind of wand, a few books with musty cloth and leather bindings, a white collared shirt that has seen better days, beige slacks, loafers, and a hounds-tooth sport coat that has multiple rips and tears and what the sheriff can only assume are claw marks.

“Remus Lupin, dad.” Stiles would find his dad’s continued confusion regarding all his fandoms exasperating, but nerd culture had always been something shared between him and his mom. Hence the dressing up, in spite of having no party at which he might show his costume off (so far as his dad is aware). Geeking out on Halloween is just one among many of the ways Stiles tries to keep the memory of her alive. Plus, Stiles isn’t above admitting that he still enjoys putting on costumes. Who wouldn’t want the chance to pretend to be someone else for a night? And the delicious irony of this particular costume has kept a smile hovering around his lips for the last two weeks, so there’s that, too.

“Right, yeah. I knew that.” At his son’s look, the sheriff gives what looks like a cross between a nod and a head-tilt, the action intimately familiar for all the times Stiles has done it himself. “Okay, no, I didn’t, but you look good, anyway.”

A good-natured laugh bursts out of him, feeling brighter and more honest than anything he’s done in this house in a long time. It really sucks that that honesty isn’t going to last. Pushing that thought way, way down, Stiles simply says, “Thanks, dad,” before pulling him into a hug and whispering fiercely, “Be safe tonight,” the same way he has in all the years since his mother ceased being there to say it instead.

His dad holds onto him tightly with one arm and reaches up to rub his free hand down the back of his head, his fingers actually sliding through the hair that Stiles has finally started allowing to grow out properly. Erica had been the one to convince him to let go of that particular tradition a little over a month ago, asking him how he was supposed to help Derek change some of the physical reminders of his own loss, if Stiles couldn’t do the same. It must have been what he needed, because just last week, Derek finally agreed that it was time to do something about his house.

“You, too, son.” It’s meant to be a joke, Stiles can tell, because what could go wrong while handing candy out to young, opportunistic human beings in brightly arrayed clothing? Still, it carries a weight that his dad probably didn’t intend, and Stiles tightens his arms around his back in response.

“Yeah, absolutely.” He squeezes one last time and then pulls away. “See you later, dad.”

“Sure thing, kiddo.” The sheriff heads for the front door, but calls over his shoulder, “Try to make sure some of that candy actually goes to the trick-or-treaters, alright?”

That, at least, comes out exactly as it should, and Stiles would be offended if it wasn’t so completely accurate. “Yeah, yeah. Get out of here.”

Once the door shuts, Stiles sets up his stool and giant fishbowl full of tooth-decaying goodness. He originally planned on using a cauldron, but the idea grated on his dedication to canon. The fishbowl, at least, might have once contained one of the less dangerous dark creatures Lupin kept in his classroom during his time as a professor. He doubts the significance will register with the little people roaming the neighborhoods of Beacon Hills tonight, since most of them have only met the world of _Harry Potter_ through the films, but it’s the thought that counts, and Stiles will know the reason.

Stiles would go through life on tenterhooks if he hadn't long since grown accustomed to being the only one capable of understanding what goes on in his head.

Five minutes later, the first little family arrives, with the dad standing out on the sidewalk, and the mom carrying a pumpkin-toddler on one hip, holding the hand of a mini-Vader on the other side. 

A young voice calls out, “Trick or treat!” Half a second behind, the pumpkin tries her best to follow her brother’s example. Stiles feels his heart melt a little bit. 

Okay, maybe a lot.

Grinning, Stiles kneels down with a handful of delicious treats, and plops them into mini-Vader’s bucket. “Star Wars, huh? Excellent choice, my man.” He gets up and places a few pieces in the little orange bag the pumpkin clutches in her baby-plump hands. “Happy Halloween, Miss Pumpkin.”

The pumpkin smiles at him shyly and carefully sounds out a soft, “Happy Halloween,” in return.

Their mom thanks him, and also wishes him a Happy Halloween, and then they are gone. A few minutes later, a dad and his three little witches come up to the door, and after that, the time passes in a kaleidoscope of costumes and candy. One or two parents - and a few of the older kids, actually - surprise him by figuring out who he is supposed to be, so Stiles decides to consider the night a success by the time 9:00 pm rolls around. He closes up shop and then goes upstairs to grab his own bag of tricks.

As an afterthought, he snags the half-full bag of Raisinets and what’s left of the Reese’s Pieces. He might as well take some fuel, because who knows how draining the rest of the night will prove?

The drive out to the Hale house is spent keeping half an eye out for any police officers who might report his movements to his dad, but his concerns are unfounded. He only sees Joey, the young officer who transferred two years back from a department in New York, and they're fairly good friends at this point. Joey won't rat him out - he's helped Stiles out before. Oh, he would never keep quiet if he knew Stiles was up to something dangerous or illegal, but he grew up in a family full of cops - he knows what it's like to want to have a little freedom. Joey waves, and Stiles drives on, ultimately arriving without trouble. As he pulls up, he spots Jackson and Lydia sitting together on the front porch, and Boyd and Erica lounging on the steps.

Hopping out of the Jeep, he grabs his bag and asks, “Where’s our illustrious leader?” The real question is where Derek’s uncle is hiding out. He hates it when Peter gets the jump on him, making him flail about like the hapless idiot he really isn’t.

Erica tells him, “He’s checking the perimeter,” and then raises an eyebrow significantly. “Peter’s upstairs with that laptop of his. I’m starting to think he has an unhealthy relationship with that thing.”

Distantly, they all hear the werewolf in question call out, “I heard that.”

“Good.” Her lips curl up, showing hints of her teeth, so that her smile bleeds through into her words, “I wanted you to.”

Lydia gifts her with an equally vicious grin, and Stiles takes a moment to be glad the two of them are on their side.

The friendship that Lydia and Erica struck up after she and Boyd escaped from the alpha pack had surprised everyone. Stiles isn’t sure from one day to the next if he should thank Peter or hate him even more, but the two girls bonded over a mutual distrust of the man, so either way, the blame for their terrifying alliance lies solely at his feet.

Mrs. McCall’s SUV pulls up behind his Jeep, and Stiles glances over from where he leans against it to see Scott and Isaac stepping out. They lope toward him casually, and he envies their effortless grace just a little bit. It will never be enough to want the bite, though. He enjoys what he can do as one of the two humans in the pack too much to ever give it up. Plus, he could never allow himself to be turned into something that might harm his dad, the only kin he has left.

“Hey, dude. You ready for this?” Scott radiates anticipatory excitement, which is clearly affecting his companion, who grins a little in spite of his attempt to be the cool, collected part of their little duo. Stiles would envy _that_ a little, too, if he wasn’t fairly certain Isaac was the main reason Scott managed to avoid falling into a lovelorn depression after Allison moved away to live with her maternal grandmother in the middle of the summer.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” This whole thing is his idea, his baby, and he’s behind it one hundred percent, really. There are just some things involved that he isn’t totally, completely, no-holds barred copacetic with.

It isn’t the magic that he finds daunting. After practicing all summer in Dr. Deaton’s office, the scents of domesticated creatures and disinfectant strong in his nose, and fluorescent lights overwhelming his eyes, he has that down to - not a science, never a science, which encourages far too much skepticism for his line of what he may as well consider work - but whatever the nearest equivalent might be. It isn’t the language aspect of it, because Lydia totally has that covered. The two of them researched and selected the exact phrases best suited to this type of ritual, and then she dutifully translated them into Archaic Latin, because the older the language used, the deeper the magic becomes, and Stiles wants the magic to be as indelible and powerful as possible. It isn’t the rest of the pack that is causing him anxiety, though he could still quite happily watch Peter walk his way off a cliff, and he only tolerates Jackson because Lydia is all kinds of hung up on the guy, and he wants his friend to be able to have her bliss however she can get it.

It is none of those things.

Shaking his head, Stiles does his best to blot out exactly what is twisting his stomach into uncomfortable knots, turning his attention back to Isaac, who now tells him, “Well, that’s good, because Derek is almost finished checking the perimeter - we passed him on our way up to the house.”

Stiles scrubs his hands through his hair, mussing it beyond all hope of redemption and not caring in the least. “Alright, everyone get in a circle except for me and Lydia.” He glances toward the house and calls out, “That means you, too, you know.”

All of them move to comply, which induces a rather heady rush of power, because being able to order around a pack of creatures a hundred times stronger than he will ever be? Definitely one of the best feelings he’s ever going to have.

It pays to have command of the supernatural elements.

Peter saunters down to take his place in the circle, and then the werewolves all look to Stiles expectantly, waiting for further instructions.

Stiles isn’t looking back at them. Instead, his eyes are focused on the figure rapidly approaching from the road, his form graceful and indomitable, especially without a shirt hiding the musculature of his torso and arms, which glisten with a light sheen of sweat under the harvest moon.

An all-too-familiar swoop of desire sweeps away his nerves, and Stiles swallows without consciously making the decision. _Focus, Stiles_. Now is so far beyond not the time. He forces himself to step away from the support of his Jeep, taking a single step toward the gathering of werewolves.

“Derek.” If this were any other night, he would crack a joke about arriving fashionably late, but this night is too heavy with purpose to cheapen it with levity.

“Where do you want me?”

Stiles chokes down the desperate noise his throat wants to make. That absolutely is not what Derek means. “Wherever you feel the most comfortable. It’s not like there can really be a head of a circle, so, you know. As long as you’re in it, somewhere.”

All that receives is a curt nod, and Stiles is grateful in a way. It's considerably more difficult to verbally embarrass himself if they aren’t actually engaging in a conversation.

Looking at Lydia with a thousand apologies in his eyes, Stiles tells her awkwardly, “Well, this is it. Might as well get this over with.”

Lydia smiles at him wryly, a hint of laughter in her own eyes. He thinks it might be at his expense.

“Don’t worry, Stiles. The first time is definitely the hardest.”

Oh, yeah. Definitely at his expense.

“This is my first time.”

“Trust me, I am aware.”

This is going to suck so badly.

Still, he steels himself and shrugs out of his sport-coat first, doing it quickly, as though ripping off a band-aid. He hesitates at the shirt, then growls at himself and basically rips that off, too. After that, the pieces of his costume pile up on the hood of his Jeep almost on autopilot, until he is left standing exposed to the chill of the autumn air, the wind awakening his skin, gooseflesh following in its wake, until he is simply Stiles. He chances one side-eyed glance at Lydia, and notes that she, too, is bare to the world, and then grabs the brush and the bowl of paste he created earlier in the day, pulling off the lid and stowing it with all his clothes.

Side by side, they walk toward the circle. Erica and Boyd shift slightly to allow them entrance, and they stand in the center of the circle, facing each other. He feels at once more vulnerable and more safe than he ever has in his entire life, surrounded by these wild, yet contained beings, with nothing to offer but himself. Well, himself and Lydia, he acknowledges as he allows himself to take her in. There was a time - a time not even that long ago - that Stiles would have given anything for this. It doesn’t matter now. There are far more important things. “Take the hands of the people next to you, and whatever happens, don’t let go.”

As soon as the circle is unbroken, Stiles dips the brush into the dark, rich paste, and lifts it to paint the first symbol just below Lydia’s collarbone. At the first touch of the paste, Lydia begins to chant, and Stiles focuses all his heart and mind on his belief, on his intent.

_We offer ourselves to you._

_Accept us._

_Protect us._

_Trust us._

_We are One._

_We are Pack._

By the time the words have been repeated twice, and Lydia has symbols on both shoulders and the upper areas of her arms, Stiles can feel the shift in the air, the first definitive sign that the magic is taking hold.

Though he never takes his eyes away from his task, he knows exactly where the bright orange face of the harvest moon stares down upon them, knows its power gives greater strength to the spell because he _believes_ it will. He covers pale, pliable skin in witch hazel and star anise and frankincense tears, painting even the delicate surface of her feet, and then she turns, presenting him with her back. All the while, her voice fills what otherwise would be deafening silence.

This time, he begins with her heels, working his way up. The magic pulls at him, taking him to a place where he cannot even register what should be a mortifying moment, brushing the firm swell of her bum. He had still been vaguely aware of the awkwardness whilst seeing to her breasts, and he is decidedly never contemplating that process ever again. When her entire back is enveloped in the complex symbols, save for the space between her shoulderblades, he meticulously marks out the pattern he saved specifically for this place.

One last stroke of the brush, and the triskele is complete, causing something in the magic to _snap_ , slotting Lydia’s bond to the rest of the pack firmly into place. She visibly stiffens at the feel of it, before turning back to him and gingerly accepting the bowl and brush, her lips still moving.

It is his turn.

The first stroke hits him with a strength that leaves him breathless. He has felt every part of this, from the very start of the ritual, but everything is so heightened, now that the focus of the magic is on him, on the beginning of his own bond. There is a warmth flowing through him now, similar to the warmth that comes from drinking wine, but invigorating, rather than relaxing. His every nerve is alight, is aware. The time it takes to mark his body is both infinitesimal and an age, and then he is facing outward, is staring right at Derek, and everything is so much sharper, though previously such a concept seemed an impossibility.

Derek’s eyes bore into his own, the red bolstering, rather than burdensome. This is his alpha, his leader, his friend. This is the being to which he pledges himself above all others. Why should he feel afraid?

Never again.

Stiles will never fear Derek Hale again.

It is as this final thought finishes that he feels Lydia draw the brush over his skin for the last time, speaking the closing words. Then they are all simply _there_ , bright points of light in his consciousness, the one he knows belongs to Derek shining the brightest. As one, they throw their heads back and howl, werewolves and humans alike, a celebration and a warning to all those who might hear it and know that for better or worse, the Hale Pack is whole.

Somewhere in the distance, the alpha pack sends their response, and rather than tremble in terror, Stiles stands a little taller, plants his legs more firmly, squares his shoulders more powerfully.

Let them come.

This is his family, now, and he cannot wait to show them the many reasons that coming to this town with their ambitions and their threats will be the last mistake they ever have the misfortune to make.

**Author's Note:**

> In no way is this connected to my other _Teen Wolf_ fics. I'm sure there are some people who are ready to shake me until I actually start writing things that include the alpha pack, rather than having them exist on the periphery, but I sort of have to go with whatever my brain throws at me, and right now, it doesn't want seem inclined to deal with the actual pack yet.
> 
> We'll see if we ever get to that point. Until then, I hope what I actually write is at least mildly interesting.
> 
> According to this (http://occult1.com/herbs.html) site , frankincense tears may be added " to any ritual to increase the power," and is incredibly powerful. Witch hazel is included for obvious reasons, and star anise has healing properties.


End file.
